


Silk Torn Rough Over Gravel

by ladyoneill



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Insanity, M/M, Mental Abuse, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:24:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoneill/pseuds/ladyoneill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas may think he's God and he may have whisked Dean away to an empty prison cell and he may make food appear sporadically and keep the temperature just on the wrong side of cold and Dean may have nothing to do but slowly go insane but he's not going to break.  He's really not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silk Torn Rough Over Gravel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HappyFunBallXD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyFunBallXD/gifts).



> Giftee asked for something dark and twisted with the prompt of "some Leviathan!Cas/Dean mind!fuck." So, I went for the mind!fuck in a big way. Poor Dean.

He's been locked away in this hole for a week. At least he thinks it's been a week. Meals come sporadically and there are no windows in the high stone walls. There's no door either. Just a ten by ten stone space with a lone light bulb hanging five feet above his head left on all the time and a mattress with a blanket in one corner, a toilet and sink in another.

He's been alone this entire time. The food just appears. It's always the right temperature and always his favorites.

The contrast between the quality of the food and the starkness of the room bothers him. He can't help but think that the burgers and beers are ways to make him complacent and the room, which is just the wrong side of too cold to be comfortable, a way to break him.

Cas or whatever the fuck he's become is going to have to try a lot harder to do either. Dean's just too pissed off to surrender to either the good or bad. 

*****

Maybe another four or five days pass and Dean begins to rethink his view. He's still not going to cave to the luxury or the deprivation, but the solitude may drive him nuts. He's begun to talk to himself, that's never a good sign.

And he's worried about Sammy. Last he saw, he was having a breakdown, the wall having crumbled into nothing thanks to Cas. Cas who shrugged off being stabbed by an angelic sword as if it was a toothpick, then called himself God and told them to bow down.

Fuck that shit.

Dean didn't bow then and he isn't going to bow now.

If the fucker ever shows up.

Under his breath he begins to curse. Heh, if Cas is now God, is this now blasphemy?

*****

When he awakens next, Dean shivers. The room seems even colder and, pushing himself up, he realizes he's stiffened while sleeping. His joints ache, especially the ones in his fingers that he's broken over the years.

"Jesus, getting old, I guess," he mutters and staggers to his feet to use the toilet and splash warm water on his face. Outside of hot food, the only concession to warmth in the place is the water, but it never gets hot. Beneath his aching fingers he feels the thickness of his beard and wonders if it's come in with that reddish tint.

One of the reasons he never grows a beard is that he hates the red.

The aroma of pancakes fills the small space, making his stomach growl, as he thinks it maybe has been a day since he ate, and he turns to find a plate sitting on the floor next to a cup of coffee. Returning to the mattress, he sits and wraps the blanket around his shoulders before picking up the plate and wolfing down the pancakes drenched in syrup along with a side of bacon.

When he's full and the coffee has warmed him a bit, he pushes himself back against the wall, the blanket and his leather jacket enough to keep the cold from the stone seeping through, and watches the dishes vanish.

Dean knows he's being monitored somehow. The dishes are always gone within minutes of him finishing eating.

It's all very creepy.

"This is very creepy," he shouts to the distant ceiling.

Unsurprisingly, there's no reply.

*****

The next time he awakens, it's not quite as cold, and he wonders if the temperature changes mean anything. He knows he's beginning to obsess over these little things--like why there was a knife to cut his steak the night--meal--before and the last time there wasn't, or how the soap has changed from something masculine scented to this flowery shit.

"I'm not going to break, Cas," he declares loudly, and begins doing pushups, ignoring the chill in the floor beneath his hands. He's tough; he can handle it.

Besides sleeping, eating, and talking to himself, there's nothing else to do in this place, so despite probably not eating even two meals a day he's in better shape than he's been in years. As he pulls the mattress away from the wall so he can jog around the perimeter, he starts chanting the marching tune from Stripes.

*****

There's a change in the room. A mirror hangs over the sink and Dean stares at his reflection--Jesus, is that really him?--dark circles under his eyes, face lean, his cheekbones too prominent, beard scraggly and, yes, red, lips chapped. As he blinks at his reflection, he can almost see himself breaking the glass and slitting his wrists.

And he's tempted.

Except that even this place is better than Hell and that's the destination for suicides, right?

Also, Dean's not entirely certain that Cas would let him die or not just bring him back if he did.

Sighing, he fingers the beard and really wishes he had a razor.

*****

There's a razor--safety--and a can of shaving cream sitting on the sink the next time he looks.

"So, back to the attempts to butter me up?"

Into the silence, Dean snorts and yells, "It's not going to work!" Then glances over and is kind of surprised the shaving gear is still there. Figuring it might not stick around, he strips off his jacket and shirt and shivers in the chill air, then runs the water as hot as it'll get before starting to shave.

When he's done and fingering his pink cheeks and jaw, he feels almost human.

And almost grateful.

Dean's stomach sinks at the thought and he tosses the razor across the room in a fit of anger and fear.

*****

Later that same day--or night, he can't tell, but he hasn't slept since before he shaved--he notices a soft but high pitched noise and sticks a finger into his ear, twisting it.

The sound remains and Dean is quick to realize that this is just another torment to get through, like the changing temperatures. Sitting on the mattress he pulls his knees up, rests his arms on them and puts his head down. 

"Great," he mutters, then starts to sing off key, every classic rock song he knows. He falls asleep in that position and wakes up with his back hurting, his neck tight and stiff, and his voice gone.

The sound continues and he can feel it reverberating off his skull.

*****

Maybe three days of the never-ending noise and Dean's near to tears from frustration and a growing headache. When food arrives--a bowl of chili heaped with onions and cheddar cheese--his stomach revolts at the smell, and he pushes the bowl away, then curls up on the mattress, the blanket tugged over his head. It does nothing to block out the noise and he's no longer able to sleep. His voice is back, but he has nothing to say.

He tries to distract himself with pleasant memories but there are too few in his life, and images of Hell tortures begin to intrude.

A horrific thought flits through his mind and he nearly vomits on an empty stomach. What if Alistair had gone this route rather than pulling his intestines out through his nose and cutting off his dick just to watch it regrow? He might not have lasted one year, let alone thirty.

This is going to drive him crazy. He knows it, and he shivers in fear.

*****

At some point the noise stops but Dean doesn't notice.

*****

His appetite never returns but he forces himself to eat some of each meal because he never knows when he might get the next one. He forces himself to keep exercising even as he mumbles to himself that there's no point, and he finds himself getting weaker and weaker with each passing day. He sleeps a lot and suffers from nightmares of Hell--not just his own suffering, but Sammy, his mom and dad, all being tortured, and their screams linger whenever he's awake.

During one particularly vivid nightmare, he sees Cas doing the torturing, and Dean wakes, sobbing into the thin pillow. He can feel the heat of Hell burning his back. For the first time in this place, he's warm.

And it's not real. He's still aware enough to know that.

Dean's losing it and he hates that he can't stop it, fears the coming insanity, and screams in denial until he passes out. This time there are no nightmares, no dreams, just a white void, and he floats there, empty and lost.

*****

Warmth seeps into the void, ever so gradually dispelling the blankness. As the numbness fades Dean first feels a tingle in his toes and fingers, then it spreads throughout his body, bringing with it an awareness. Desperately he tries to go back into the void but it's disappearing around him, and he feels his body for the first time in what seems like forever.

He aches. He's warm, too warm, and he's sweating. He's hungry and trembling and breathing harder and harder...

Dean opens his eyes and for a moment everything is blurry, then everything comes into focus.

The stone walls are gone as is the dingy mattress and the bare bulb. He's in a luxurious room with a whole wall of windows through which the sun shines. It hurts his eyes and he blinks fiercely, turning his head away from the first natural light he's seen in what seems like forever.

Dean tries to move and everything rebels. His body hurts and his stomach rumbles in hunger, but the bed beneath him is so soft and the blankets warming him feel as silky as velvet. The dichotomy of being both comfortable and aching confuses him, and he tries to figure out what's going on.

And then he remembers.

Cas.

"Cas," he whispers, horrified, afraid.

Burrowing beneath the covers he tries again to force himself back into the void of nothingness, but his mind is churning over memories of the past weeks, all the suffering and loneliness and madness, and now he's here in comfort and that means he's broken, right?

Dean realizes he asked that out loud when a voice answers, and it's not in his head this time. The voice is familiar, like silk torn rough over gravel, and he knows that voice.

"Are you broken, Dean? So quickly? You lasted so much longer in Hell."

Is he being taunted?

Struggling to sit up and failing, Dean finds himself panting hard, so weak. How long was he unconscious, because that's what the void has to have been?

"Five days. Don't worry. I monitored you closely. I didn't want you dying on me. Just...breaking." 

That voice, it's Cas, but it's...there's a dark amusement that was never in Cas before. He wouldn't even have understood it.

"Who are you?" Dean's voice cracks and his throat is so dry. Managing to lift his head he tries to find the source of the voice, but there's no one in his limited line of sight, and his head feels like it weighs a ton and he lets it fall back to the pillows.

"You know who I am," the voice mocks.

"Not...Cas."

"Of course I'm Cas." And then he's there, standing by the bed. He's wearing the trench coat and old suit with the loosened tie, hair askew and head cocked, but the expression on his face...that's not Cas.

His smile is too wide, too dark, and his eyes glitter, nearly navy in the sunlight. Wrong. All wrong.

"You're not Cas," he proclaims more strongly.

The smile widens, sickly, and then the thing in Cas laughs. "No, you're right, Dean. I'm not Cas. Well, not all Cas. There are lots of things in here. Do you really think he could escape unscathed after opening Purgatory? He may be an angel but he's in a puny human vessel, and it's full to the seams with us." Cas' body sits on the bed and Dean tries to squirm away, but the weakness is too much, and he's sweating and panting and terrified.

There's a deep inhale and the smile grows even wider and even nastier. "You reek of fear. It's wonderful. And you're scared for him, too. Even after all his betrayals, you still care. You humans really are so pathetic." 

A clammy hand pats his cheek and Dean nearly screams, choking on bile and struggling to move, to get away. Fingers grip his jaw and hold him down so easily.

"But, don't worry, we're eating all the others, one at a time, and soon Cas will be just us and, well, what's left of him, just a teeny spark of grace to keep the body animated, and then we'll find our way into your world and he'll be nothing."

''Wh...what are you?" Dean grinds out, the fingers like ice burning into his skin, and he starts to shiver uncontrollably.

"We're the abomination even God feared. We're Leviathan, and we're going to own your world and feast on your flesh until there's nothing left, and then we'll storm the gates of Heaven and eat all the angels, and do the same to Hell for the demons, and finally we...I'll find God and have him for dessert."

The hand leaves him and Dean's face feels numb. He tries to swallow and chokes again. Dizziness sweeps over him and this time the void is black.

He gratefully falls into it.

*****

There's a meadow full of wild flowers and tall grasses, a cloudless blue sky, and the sound of distant birds and insects filling the scented air. Dean can feel he's being held from behind as he lays on his side. There are strong arms around his waist, hands light on his stomach. The touch is warm, not icy cold. The breath on the nape of his neck tickles. He shivers but he's not scared.

It's not fear flooding him but happiness.

"Cas," he murmurs.

"I'm here, Dean." The voice is still silk torn rough over gravel, but there's a reverent tone, a caring he hasn't heard for such a long time.

"Did it eat me, too?" Because how else could the real Cas be holding him when the Leviathan has control of his vessel?

"I don't know," is the honest and confused answer and a soft warm breeze rustles the grass around them. "This may be a dream."

"Feels too real."

"We're on the southern slopes of Heaven, Dean. A place I have dreamed of returning to for so long."

Dean looks over his shoulder and sees a pensive look on Cas' face, then he turns in his arms, not even wondering why he feels so comfortable being held by him. Maybe this was just many years in coming, or maybe he really has gone crazy.

"Maybe I'm dead. Maybe you're dead, too, and this is our eternal reward."

Cas snorts. "I've damned myself. More likely this is a trick of the Leviathan to lure us into a false sense of security."

"So they can escape."

"Yes."

"I supposed we should stop them," Dean sighs, forcing himself to leave the comfort of Cas' arms and get to his feet. He scans the horizon, then looks down. "Coming?"

Cas stands and frowns. "To where?"

"Out of the dream. Thing thinks it broke me, but I don't break that easy." He starts across the field, aware that Cas is following him. "Maybe you're just a figment of my imagination, but I'm going to wake up and get that thing to give me some food and when I've got my strength back, I'm going to kill it."

"Sometimes I forget you're the Righteous Man."

"Damn straight." Stopping for Cas to catch up, Dean reaches back and takes his hand, then they continue walking side by side across the endless field beneath the warm sun and bright blue sky.

*****

The Leviathan makes a tsking noise and flicks a finger through the drool on Dean's chin. "Oh dear, did I truly break you? Are you even in there any more, Dean?" It laughs harshly and pulls the blanket up under the human's chin. "You've been too fun a plaything to just let die, so I suppose I'll need to find you a care giver, someone to feed you gruel and wipe your ass. I do want you there when I eat the world, Dean. Even if you're a vegetable. Such a failure for the Righteous Man." It snorts in derision and rises from the bed to go conquer the world.

End


End file.
